VII. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam VIII. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleen? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. I. THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? II. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, III. Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new ; All breathing human passion far above, IV. Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other wo Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO PSYCHE. O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-couched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? O latest-born and loveliest vision far Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet Yet even in these days so far retired Fluttering among the faint Olympians, Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; . A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, FANCY. EVER let the Fancy roam, |